


Sting when you bleed

by tzigane, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Series: Getting Away from it All [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Marking, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bastian had scars. There were rather a lot of them because he had never been all that afraid of getting hurt. Getting hurt was just a fact of life. It was something that happened, something that was going to happen, and he had learned that at a very early age. If he wanted to live life in a way he was comfortable with, he was going to have scars, and lots of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sting when you bleed

Jim had been eyeing him for days.

There wasn't anything strange about that; nothing in the least, because when he went on those stretches of not sleeping, when Bastian started finding the toaster taken apart completely and the sound of him rattling about the house all hours of the night started being regular sorts of occurrences, Jim always started watching him. Maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was just his brand of crazy, but sometimes, just sometimes, it had an extra little edge to it.

Something... more.

Not that he knew what to do with Jim when he was like that, extra wound up or not. By then it was mostly damage control. Try to keep him from blowing up the Tower or something, or Big Ben. By the time he reached that point, there were very few safe ways to keep Jim at home, and only one guaranteed way to do it.

Bastian had scars. There were rather a lot of them because he had never been all that afraid of getting hurt. Getting hurt was just a fact of life. It was something that happened, something that was going to happen, and he had learned that at a very early age. If he wanted to live life in a way he was comfortable with, he was going to have scars, and lots of them. There was no getting around it, and he'd stopped trying. Now it really was all about keeping Jim in, giving Jim an outlet that wasn't going to get them all so fucking arrested they didn't know what was up and what was down. Christ. "Hey, boss."

Yeah. Hey, and Jim was standing there watching him, gaze flat and black, fire hidden behind it, banked. "Sebastian. I want you on your knees."

He could already tell that didn't mean blowing him, either.

"Yes, sir." He eased himself down slowly, because he wasn't as young as he used to be, and he needed to save the damage for tactical situations.

It seemed to be the right answer; Jim's nostrils flared with pleasure, his chin notching upwards, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that wasn't a smile. "It has been a while." As if he would automatically know what was meant by it and he did. God, he did. "Hand me it."

He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling at his tactical blade. It had a good handle, a heavy, familiar weight to it. Not as showy as a switch blade, but he could quick release it in a hurry if he needed to. Without flinching, he laid it in Jim's palm, and listened to the pleasured hum.

"Yes. Oh, yes, that is exactly what I have wanted." Deep purr of a sound, and when it was open, Jim crossed it lightly over a finger, hissing. "Oooo, baby."

He exhaled in a slow huff, letting his hands settle behind his back because it felt right and natural. It felt easy. It was like submitting to command.

Submission was, in all honesty, the only way to make it through sometimes.

Fingers were nimble against the placket of his shirt, thumbing open one button at a time, Jim humming to himself, some musical bit of something that probably had some hidden meaning for what he was doing or maybe it didn't. Who the fuck knew. "Ohhh, that is so nice."

He lifted his chin a little, still not quite making eye contact with Jim. "What is?"

Slow, slow smile, a little dirty, definitely hot. "Your skin. All of that skin, and all of these little lines and swirls and dots." A burn scar there, slashing lines over his ribs, a bullet wound to his left side. There were others. This wasn't a new game, but the gleam of Jim held a certain... something. "What will we do today, hm?"

By we, he clearly meant _I_.

"Whatever you like," Sebastian offered, voice slow and careful as he looked at Jim's ear, steadily focused. He knew what was coming; it was as good as written in stone, or more like written in flesh, and Jim was walking around him, tugging at his unbuttoned shirt until it was tangled around his wrists where they were clasped behind his back.

"That's exactly right. Whatever I like. Whatever I want."

It didn't matter where his shirt ended up, or where his trousers might go, because they were next. He knew what was going to happen. "Yes, sir." Anything, and it was really such a small sacrifice, wasn't it, staying here like this. If it kept Jim out of prison and it kept the greater London area from exploding, it was worth it.

The suddenness of motion behind him and the sharp-toothed bite that Jim gave him was enough to make him yelp. Fuck, fuck, that stung, and he was definitely bleeding. Ow.

He ducked his head down, and panted through the pain, shoulders tensing against it. Fuck, he could manage, with barely a reaction, he could manage.

Fucking crazy bastard, and he'd get his own later, he would, but for now he had to bear through it, and he wasn't all that surprised when Jim shifted, laughing against the back of his neck. "Nnn, honey, I do love it when you bleed."

He gave a huff, and tilted his head back, feeling Jim back there. Really feeling him, relaxing and letting himself feel the pain and the fear and the undercurrent of enjoyment that was there, too, because no matter what Jim did, it all ended up being... well. He knew it wasn't normal, but honestly, Bastian couldn't make himself give a fuck.

The trickle down his back was maddening and, Jim was still hovering behind him. He could imagine what that looked like, manic concentration, lower lip bitten tightly between bloody teeth. "Unf." Yeah, and then Bastian couldn't hold back the gasp because the knife was scratching its way just deep enough to break skin, to scar.

"Fuck. Fuck. What're you doing back there?" Other than marking him up. He hoped it wasn't another fancy pattern.

Jim laughed, a little wild. "I love it when you're bloody. When you have my mark on you. I just... want it to be more specific. For you. For everyone." Fuck, another slice, and ow. Ow. Shit.

"What's it say?" He clenched his hands tightly, trying not to squirm on his knees. It hurt like a motherfucker, and Jim was chortling happily to himself.

"I'll show you. When I'm done."

His dick was aching, but he definitely wasn't hard. It was too much pain to do more than squirm and ache and feel it too sharply, all Jim. All Jim on a fucking bender, Jim high on no sleep and blood and the things he'd been planning to do to Bastian and fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, it took forever, and then Jim was leaning in, lathing his tongue across Bastian's split flesh, and he couldn't keep from groaning.

"Christ, fuck, oh god, un, un believable..." He rolled his neck, panting, shifting on his knees, trying not to be as much of a mess about it as he felt, but he was panting and unable to help himself.

"My mark," Jim murmured close to his ear, the sticky smear against the lobe of it making Bastian shudder again. "Strip off your trousers, would you?"

Moving hurt, and not moving hurt. Everything hurt and he could feel the warm drip of blood down his back. He reached his hands down, though, still half curled into fists as he unbuttoned his trousers and shifted up enough to ease them down off of his ass, pulling his pants with them. "How, fuck, how far?"

"Far enough." Yeah, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean, and then Jim was close against his back, and he could feel the motion of his hand, the soft, desperate sounds that seemed suddenly so different than he had been just a handful of moments before. It was unsurprisingly when he received a light nip at the back of his neck, and when Jim came, it was entirely anticlimactic.

He was barely a canvas for Jim to orgasm against, something to be smeared and come against. It didn't do much for him, but if it took the edge off for Jim, then good enough. He'd done his job, and he would certainly get his eventually.

Bastian might be a fucking masochist, but he wasn't normally anyone's doormat. Not even James Moriarty's.

The flash of Jim's phone snapping photos of his back was a bit of a surprise, but then he leaned against Bastian's other shoulder and hummed in a low, tired sort of sound. "That was what I wanted. Just that."

"Yeah?" He sounded a little breathless to his own ears, a little tired and hollowed out. Everything still hurt. Probably would for a little while. Even a long while.

One arm reached around and Jim lazily showed him the photo. "Yeah." Yeah, and Bastian was familiar with the slow, dragging way Jim was starting to behave. It wouldn't be long, minutes at most, and he would finally sleep after days awake. Hurting someone always helped, but marking Bastian as his was something else altogether.

He didn't expect to see the very clean, clear letters I and U, with a ragged bite mark of an O in the middle, tiny squiggles in between that looked like maybe a W and an N. Maybe. "The fuck is that, boss?"

Jim leaned back, eyes closing slowly. "Practice."


End file.
